As winter has been settling in this week, it seemed like a good time to take a pitstop and “Fill ‘Er Up!,” as my grandpa used to say. This time of year, being indoors so much, it can feel like you’re burning fuel going nowhere. Or . . . just me? As a creative, who works from a home studio, the daily struggle this time of year is to not burn out by overthinking. It’s a yearly struggle, really, but more so this time of year. The speed at which my mind can race is like a Ferrari going 200mph. Watch out for the deathly turn around Worry Bend. It’s a doozy.

I’ve learned throughout the years that when I’m peeling out, it’s time to STOP. Fill ‘er up. And switch gears. Here are a few things that have continued to help me—maybe they’ll help you, too, if you’re ever in need of a creative jump start.

Step Away from Social Media. You can do it. I know it’s hard. I don’t even need to tell you why it’s good for you—you know. It’s doesn’t have to be a week or a month. Try a day for starters. Or one night.

MOVE. This doesn’t need to be in an exercise way (although kudos if you do!). Take a ride in your car. Or, if you’re a city-dweller, take a walk with no agenda. Changing atmosphere can give you a spark.

Go to Your Happy Place. Where is that? For me, that can be a museum or a coffee shop or a beach or a park. Your mood can shift where that happy place is, but take a moment to listen to where that inner-you wants to go.

CONNECT (IRL). Refer to #1 and then . . . make plans with someone to meet up in person. It’s not convenient—we’re all “busy”—but don’t give up on people if it doesn’t work out. The point is to show you care—because you do, even if you don’t show it every day—and turn your energy outwards.

Make for Fun. “Fun” can be a loaded word, but the implication, to me, is a child-like spirit or joy that comes out of doing something as if no one was watching. We don’t always operate out of that place, but more often we should. It could be an art project, a home project, or even food. Make something that makes you feel alive again.

In the past twelve months you’ve come a far way. It may not feel like you’ve made it where you want to be yet…but you’re on your way. I don’t know about you, but I’m quieting down at this point in the year. There are exactly 15 days left in December and after today I’m liking to shut off from the rest of the world, unplug and reboot, until that 2018 flips to 2019.

I don’t want to be advertised to anymore.I don’t want to see all of the top lists from 2018.I don’t want to be made to feel not enough.

I want to dig into the wonder around me.I want to write that story that wants to be written and draw that story that wants to be drawn.I want to take time to listen and be present for others, really be seen, and take time to see.

I wish you all the courage to seek the signs you need to continue following your path in 2019. Til then . . . keep that sparker spirit alive and may it light your way!

Back in June of this year, I pulled my old screen printing screens from the rafters of my parents’ garage. I felt compelled to finally bring them home to Delaware with me, to resuscitate them from their last use in 2004 at UArts. I finally had a big enough space (and time) to make my dream of screen printing at home a reality. Even though I didn’t have specific ideas of what to screen print yet, bringing those frames home was like bringing back a missing piece of me.

Just this past October I heard that the person who not only taught me screen printing, but also a great deal about being a creative in the world, passed away in July: Lois M Johnson (1942-2018). The UArts community, her colleagues & friends, gathered yesterday to pay tribute to her legacy and share stories. I went and it reminded me how important it is, for when these things happen, that we do share. We all make marks on each other in big and small ways, each and every day. I can say that I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for Lois.

In 2000 I entered UArts in Philly as a Painting major—all I had on my brain was painting. I thought I’d paint and teach, or go on to paint theater backdrops. By sophomore year, when I had to really pick a major, though, things shifted for me, as I spent a lot of time in my head and coming-of-age thoughts. I turned to my lifelong love of books and went on to choose Printmaking/Book Arts because I wanted to learn everything about them. I was 1 of 5 people in that major’s “Class of 2004.” Lois was the head of the department, a guidepost for many.

I struggled a lot, like many twentysomethings in art school, to figure out what creative processes I liked and didn’t like, and how they could define my voice. I was attracted to monoprinting and screen printing because, as Lois would say, “It’s like painting in layers.” And I loved that she’d used the word “painting.” I experimented a lot with including words and narrative along with my images, because by the time I was a senior I was strongly being drawn to write for the children’s book market.

So many times I thought I had to choose—write or make images. But Lois, and a few other teachers I was close with, taught me how stories and images could come together.

As anyone who has ever attended art school knows, sometimes the most challenging thing is figuring out professional survival outside of school and deciding where to cast your net. I remember Lois saying to me, “Creative thinking in workplaces will always be needed.” She widened my perception of the job landscape, even though my skills were specific.

In a time when I knew very little about the ins-and-outs of book pubishing, Lois recommended that I look into a place called Running Press, local to our city, and see if they had any internships in their production department. Production dealt with printers, after all, and offset printing was a little something I understood. Even though I would be graduating, she encouraged me to still explore the idea of a summer internship post-grad.

For those who don’t know me, Running Press went on to be a company I had two career tracks with in the span of my twenties and thirties... But that’s another story for another day.

To some, October is a time for Pumpkin Spice Lattes and finally a chill in the air—to illustrators & artists, it’s also that time of year when pen-and-ink art floods their feeds. In past years I’ve tried to participate in Inktober twice. Both times I failed at completing something every day. One year I could have blamed that I bought a house. The other year I could have blamed my off-balanced work to life ratio. But, in short, what got in the way of my daily dedication was none other than me. I’ve learned a lot about my creative habits through the years. And while I don’t expect this year’s Inktober to go perfect—because life, after all, isn’t perfect—I do hope that I come closer to my goal of somewhat-daily drawing this month and for months to come. I’m writing this here as more like Notes to Myself, rather than a Memo to All, because everyone’s practice and goals are different. If by chance this helps you in some other habit-forming aspect of your life, I raise my high-five hand to you.

5 NOTES TO SELF

Set the clock: You’d be surprised what you can accomplish during one episode of THE VOICE. For me, 1 hour is a realistic minimum work time to create something I’m halfway pleased with.

Put your blinders up: It’s okay to not swim in the flooded feeds of #Inktober2018 posts. Focus on your own lane.

Establish a theme: For me, I find I work best when I work in a series or by projects, as opposed to one-off pieces. It’s great once in a while to throw everything to the wind, but that’s a rarity for me.

Don’t be afraid to evolve: The whole point of exercises like Inktober is to try to explore and create healthy habits throughout a series of pieces. It’s not to create 31 consistent portfolio pieces (although props to you, if you do and that’s your goal!).

Have fun!: The energy that you put into your work is the energy people are going to feel coming out of your work. While drawing can sometimes feel like being Tik-Tok from Return to Oz, just remember that you have a lot of support in the world ready to help crank you back up.

I'm usually a good listener. I like to pay attention to things that seem to want to be heard. But sometimes I've found that it's not enough to just listen. You have to engage, as well.

What are you listening to? And what are you doing to help that voice know it's being heard? Perhaps think of it as a "call" and a "response."

Music is a call...dancing can be a response.Reading is a call...writing your favorite lines in a journal can be a response.Social media is a call...taking time to write a comment can be a response.And when it can all feel like too much noise, just remember that silence can also be a call...and stillness a response.

There is always value in the silence. Silence between moments. Silence between brush strokes or even music notes.

Because I'm fascinated with creative process, I once wrote down this quote by the composer Philip Glass from his book "Words without Music." He talks of the importance of listening in performance. I think the sentiment could be applied to other art forms as well, though.

The performer must be listening to what he is playing. And this is far from automatic. You can be playing and not pay attention to listening. It's only when you're engaged with the listening while you're playing that the music takes on the creative unfolding. The moment of creativity. Which is actually every moment. That moment becomes framed as it were in a performance. A performance becomes a formal framing of the activity of listening. And that would be true for the player as well.

Don't just take time to listen...take time to perform a tiny moment, if you will.

Have you ever been afraid at the start of something? Beginnings can be scary. Images of trailheads and baby steps and first days of school come to mind. Sometimes each day can feel like a new something. There are so many things that can go wrong . . . and yet so many things that can go right!

When I started SparkerLit, I did it with the love of kids in mind. The kid in me and the kid in you and all the little wonders wandering around us. But I feared I’d fail. When I was a Sparker (as my grandpa used to call me), I never worried about failing at being creative—I just worried about failing tests. It’s when I grew up that the idea of failure became big.

But courage is bigger.

Years ago at Christmastime, when I worked an office job, I was gifted a paperweight that said “what would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?” In my home office now it sits on my desk and I read it every day, but secretly remove the word “not” when I say it to myself.

you probably don't know me yet (or if you do, hello, you!). welcome to part of my imperfectly perfect little studio. i hope you come back and visit again. i plan to infuse this space with what you may think of as ordinary things, but perhaps they will find a way of igniting the extraordinary sparker in you.